A wedding night in Paris
by SAINTIXE56
Summary: Bells ring in Paris. A royal wedding for Rollo; the funeral of all her hopes. Rollo and Gisla. How to build bridge between two people who share neither Gods nor language. When all you know of the other is a crazy bear set on slaughtering your people and all you have to sustain your hopes is a prophecy. Who will tame who? Writer is French Reviews welcomed.
1. Chapter 1

Dedicated to princessegisla. oneiriad and the poster who has asked for Rollo+Gisla fanfiction

A wedding night.

Coercion can succeed; especially when the one coerced believes in the superior interest of one's country. The king was weak yet just like every coward he could be very stubborn while his daughter who had inherited the iron will of the Great Emperor was weakened by her wholehearted dedication to the well-being of Frankia.

She had to marry the beast who had killed so many of her people, the heathen who would no doubt relish in inflicting on her children just as pagan as their father. Far from saving Paris, she was enslaving her realm to the hated North men. From where they were seated in Heaven, her ancestresses must be ashamed of her. An abject failure to the long line of Christian Kings and Queens of Frankia, this was to be her fate.

Tears of despair mingled with sorrow freely ran from her eyes. Franks had a proverb as a rainy wedding was the harbinger of a happy marriage. Charles did not mind: he would have gladly married two daughters to the Viking leader if said sinful bigamist ceremony would save more of the Frankish kingdom. Tears also fell from the sincere Parisian well-wishers. Their princess was been sacrificed to a monster and resentment was building against the inept grandson of Charlemagne.

It was ineptitude, weakness and absence of a sense of leadership which had cost the throne to the first dynasty. Some might choose to forget the original coup which had handed the crown to Pippin, great grandfather of Charles. but some had not. Odo, count of Paris, marquis of Neustria had taken quite badly that part of his domain was handed to Rollo. Odo was just like Charles a descendent of Charlemagne though through the distaff side. Being the son of a bastard was not shameful but it was still a tall order to convince the plaid of the nobility of the kingdom that King Odo had a better ring than King Charles.

The North Man was keeping a cool exterior; but inside, he was totally bewildered by the process of the ceremony. People sang, then went silent to sing again. Incense was burnt and proffered under his nose. Sinric was helpfully hinting words he has to give to meaningless questions asked in a language which was not even Frank! Grunting and nods seemed acceptable. All he could do was to hope Odin was understanding he was doing all this to get married to the delicious girl this shadow of a man who was daring to call himself emperor had begotten.

Gisla, the Princess Gisla. The proud shield maiden who had defended Paris against his men with a simple shield of red fabric. The woman who had been there when they had attacked the bridge. He had seen here fighting against his desire to see more of her. They had almost made it but again the Christian God had protected the City. Ragnar has connived successfully to gain access inside it and they had raided it. But the palace has not fallen and the raid had not been repeated. Ailing, half-dead, Ragnar had had no choice but leave his brother behind. A brother sorely tempted by the Maid of the Franks. An ambitious, jealous sibling eager to throw away whatever duty he owed to his kingly brother to carve his own kingdom in the lands of this degenerated royal fool.

All was going according to plan when the prophecy became a reality. The Seer had told him: the princess will marry the bear, now he was getting married to Charles's beautiful daughter. Yet there was no reason whatsoever to dance naked on the beach. Sideways, he glanced to his bride as she was kneeling by him. He had not missed the desperate glance she had thrown at her father like a man condemned to death gives to the executioner hoping for a reprieve.

Everybody would see this was a sacrifice. A deadly one. Gisla would not let anyone miss the message of her despair. She was getting married against her will; any child born from this union against nature would be nothing more than an illegitimate child. She was not asking God to bless her wedding; she was not getting married. She would find an escape. This was the death of all her hopes to find a man worthy of her love, worthy of her trust; death it was but nobody had said martyrs had to die in silence.

Charles shuffled on his great chair, nodded as the unhappy archbishop and allowed the ceremony to proceed. More tears ran from Gisla; the city inhabitants were also giving free rein to their sorrow. The magnificent wedding was now turning into a bloody funeral.

Rollo cursed himself not to have tried and learned more words in Frankish if only to tell his girl he really loved her. If she was a princess, so much the better yet if she had been a slave like Thorunn he would have married her just the same. What had been good for his nephew, was just as good for him. it was Fate.

God of Chlothilde, give me courage. God of Esther, give me grace. God of…

Gisla felt a nudge from the man kneeling at her side along realizing that the priest was looking at her like she had not listened.

\- Gisla, Your Highness, do you take this man Rollo as your wedded husband?

All she could do was to focus as strong as she could on the cross standing on the altar. The moment had come for the lamb to be sacrificed.

\- Oui.

The momentum turned to her now husband. All had turned to the horrible, horrible creature next to her. From now on, she was a wife. Well, the North man had won a wife; he was far from having gained a consenting bed fellow.

The rest of the day dragged leaving a feeling of Eternity for the newlyweds. All Rollo wanted was some time with his weeping wife to try and build some sort of bridge with her; all the emperor wanted was to introduce him with the sneering envoys of his feuding brothers. From what Sinric translated, Gisla's uncles had like Charles more than their share of troubles with the North Men. When it was not ambassadors from Lotharingia or Italy, it was envoys from Constantinople and wedding gifts to greet with a broad smile by exotic dark-skinned envoys.

If Rollo hated his wedding day, it was nothing compared to the princess positive hatred of the proceedings. The day was dragging way too long for the Viking; the day was woefully moving forward way too fast for the girl from Frankia.

Yet, there is a time for everything and everything comes to an end eventually. The male guests had led the groom to an anteroom while making lewd jokes at it was the custom proving to Rollo Franks were not that different than his people in Kattegat; the ladies accompanied by nuns had united in the bedroom while Gisla was slowly been undressed from her golden cloak over a golden dress and more golden under dress. An elderly countess had whispered to her horrified ears the facts of life while an abbess had held her hand soothing her princely charge that nobody would be able to pull her out of her convent should she enter it. Not eve the emperor for no man is more powerful than God and God protected his daughters.

By now, the princess knew she was going to be raped by a monster or that her future was to bury herself alive before the deed in a nunnery. She was punished, cruelly punished. Poor Odo; kind, gentle, worthy Odo. She had rejected his loving heart and now she was cast to the bear for him to rip her apart.

A knock on the door was answered by the entrance in the room by Charles Followed by Rollo, followed by a male audience. A bishop proceeded to bless the matrimonial bed, bless the happy couple who had sit each on his and her side of the bed and just like the sea washed off the traces of one' feet in the sand, emperor, priest and guests had left taking with them laughter, music and sound.

Dressed now in a long virginal night dress of Byzantine silk, Gisla had run out of tears. Now was the moment and the moment was slicing through her chest. After three generations of happily married couples, this was a marriage blessed by Satan. The princess was thinking unthinkable things entertaining unacceptable thoughts. Everything seeming better than this torture she was going through. Lost to the world, she did not hear what her husband was attempting to tell her in broken Frank.

\- Well, finally together. I was wondering when you and I would be able to speak without the presence of Sinric.

With a sigh, Rollo started to undress until a gasp startled him. The look of utter disgust on Gisla's face was not missed by him. But he would succeed. He would tame her gently, step by step. He would not break her; he would win her trust then her love. This was a real princess. Not that Aslaug was not a princess… or a queen by her own right. This was a princess from a different land, a different world. A world under a Southern sun which basked him. A world where Ragnar was not ruling. Ragnar, one day would threatened his world, that much he knew. Ragnar would try but the Dane king would not succeed. This world was not Kattegat; this world was not ready for Ragnar. This world was open to Rollo because the berserker was ready to play by the rules of these Southerners.

\- My people… they get … colours (no, not colours) bl…blue ink (yes, ink. Lets hope it's ink) like… tattoos (I have no clue of the damned word). We like it. OI mean we do not… not overlook ( no, not this) not think Franks are wimps for not being … coloured (this will do).

He sat on his side of the bed.

\- I am exhausted. Let us sleep a little then when we are less (what? I am not tired, I am just facing a terrified colt) Good night, Gisla, (Dear, my dear dear love)

And slept he did. Down to snore. The good will gesture was totally missed by the princess. She had fared way too far into the realm of utter despair…. And she had planned an exit.

Under her pillow, she slowly pulled out a dagger. A fancy hunting dagger, a gift from the King of Asturias. A good omen since the Hispanic royal was fighting against odds with mitigated success the Moorish invaders of his kingdom. Fight, she would. She slowly raised the blade over the sleeping man, ready to strike.

She was going to … when he turned toward her side.

It is one thing to slay a man by backstabbing him; it takes more than strike him when he looks at you direct in the eyes. Or as she was experiencing when said man sleeps peacefully by you. When he trusts you with his defenceless sleep. The arm was still raised but the arm was not going to strike.

She was … she was just as a weakling as her father, she was unworthy of the noble blood of her dynasty. A failure, an abject failure. Unworthy. Death was better than this, once dead.. she would be free,. Mother, sweet mother would plead for her. Suicide was not approved of, but surely everybody had seen she was coerced. And… and she had not killed an unarmed man. surely this would count in her favour. The arm rose again, steady, calm. its blade facing the white fabric covering her maidenly bosom. It rose. in a few seconds, she would be free. The arm stroke…

Not fast enough for the iron wrist which had seized it in a vice grip.

\- Are you mad, woman?


	2. Chapter 2

The slim wrist was twisting trying to escape its prison; while the nails of his companion hand were scratching the cheek of the Norse giant. Trying was the word as the thick beard was protecting his owner from the attack. By now the blessed couple was fighting and snarling at each other. Fighting was probably too great a word for an undignified tussle between a short-tempered husband and the most bitter flower of the imperial court. Another punishing grip got hold of Gisla free hand.

In a way, it was reminding him of the large forest wild cats of his own country. Hissing, trying to claw him, while never ceasing to eye him with a naked rage. If looks could kill, he was a dead man since his surviving skills had woken him by suggesting to his sleeping brain there was something odd in the way his wife was shuffling about…

Thor, his preferred God had protected him from the Frank woman. Soon, she would realize… realize what? Was he going to kill her; he could and easily. Twist the knife against her chest and get her to plunge the blade with her own hand… or get rid of the knife followed by a quick or slow strangulation like not so long ago, he had toyed with the idea about Siggy.

The memory of his drowned wife was not forgotten; he knew the price, a bitter one of having failed to tell her goodbye when he should have. Was it what the Gods had in mind for him: more nights in an empty bed, more mornings with a hand searching for a warm body to hold meeting a cold empty expanse?

The Gods had fated he would be happy, he would finally get the fame every Viking worth of this name was looking for. He would be recognized for his worth: a great man, a strong, powerful and lucky man. A man rejected no more but valued and loved. Yes respected, feared and loved. Since Odin had planned his destiny and this destiny included a growling vixen in his bed, said bitch would be tamed. Tamed by him and now. No more niceties; she would submit! Deep inside, a voice was trying to stop the situation from getting from bad to worse. By now, the warrior who had trained from a young age wearing the pelt of the bear was raging just as much as his wife. In letting the spirit of the beast enter his soul reaping apart what was making it human to leave just one thing : a very angry creature was about to give a lesson to the girl he had sworn but a few hours earlier to cherish and protect.

She needed to be tamed and tamed she would be soon. She would be the fitting retribution for the long wait till today's morning. Not that he would have tried and kissed her. Franks were just as high sticklers when it came to the accepted behaviour expected from a man toward his affianced wife. Never left alone together; not that he could get anywhere with the meagre Frank he has learned from Sinric. During these frustrating weeks, the princess disdain was his reward on a good day; most of the time all he was getting was pure revulsion… This was the past; he was not to be rejected from now on, she was his wife; she was his.

Gisla was struggling while knowing that she would never win. Her wrists were prisoners of wider, stronger, bigger hands. Soon her bones would snap. The dagger would fall and the wild man who has attacked her city walls without the protection of a good chain mail shirt would… would do what? Take his revenge!

A cold sweat ran through her; she knew what these men were doing to women. She knew now how repulsive was the physical aspect of mating. If the idea of Odo on top of her was making her queasy, how would it turn to be with… this mountain of warm meat? Furious warm meat as it was…The dagger fell; but she did not give in. Her grandmother had fought as a dowager for the rights of her son. Her female line was not made of weaklings … as opposite to the male line.

More she was fighting, more he was letting the berserker grow wild inside him. Gone was the voice begging him to keep a cool head; all he could see what a pretty girl who was now his own; this girl would learn soon enough he was the master of his own hall. She fought while he was just building up a blind rage looking for revenge after all these years of rejections. It was enough; no more humiliation. She would pay for them, for all of them. She was his. His wife. This was her fate; it was time the Christian woman learned about the wrath of a North man too many times scorned. He was a lone grey wolf and he had found the she-wolf he was longing for. Mating was what he needed.

Whatever plans Rollo had tried to conceive as to obtain a willing bride, as to share together physical pleasure went the very same way the towers built by Floki had gone when the Franks had poured fire on them. Destruction!

He would enjoy his bride. Now.

Suddenly, the grip was no more. Tomorrow, Gisla was fleetingly thinking; tomorrow she would have to choose a dress with very long sleeves to hide the bruises when she realized that the short struggle had put her in a vulnerable position. Not only she had lost her one weapon but he had topped above her and his eyes were looking at her in the most horrible way like they were evaluating something about… No!

No, not this. Not this way. Leering, he was leering at her. Giving the same looks her father's soldiers gave to some women her path had crossed. Women in gaudy dresses, with a vulgar make up. Shrill laughs matched by quickly whispered rendezvous, this was 'it' and 'It' stroke fear. It was not that somehow she had entertained the hope he would not make love to her. This duty was expected from a wife; she could not deny her body to her husband. She had to open her legs apart…

Was it a few days ago that she had refused soundly to be bedded by him, her now husband. Her virginity was not for him. Fool. Poor fool. Poor Gisla. She was going to… and nobody was going to raise the alarm; nobody was going to rescue her. She was now but legally owned chattel and her lord had the blessing of the church and the empire to enjoy her. Whether she wanted IT or not.

The silk dress was pushed above her waist; coarse uninvited hands ran above her body. A weight on her body, sweat. Hungry lips, a wet tongue… It was IT; no wonder the wedding matron had warned her: men were pigs, beasts; all of them monsters driven by lubricity. All of them, including Odo…. including father?

These things, these caresses … maybe these fondles … they were some sort of tradition among the North men. Franks… Franks were civilized. Yes, civilized. This was just a beast in the process of mating. A sweaty beast whose lips were kissing and whispering unintelligible words. His mouth was hungrily tasting her skin, taking her neck, her breasts as his right; her body was just a territory now submitted to the will of a demonic creature. A demon worshiping demons. False idols and… and she was … Genovefa protecting Paris. Like the saint, she was facing a barbarian horde. Never ever she would allow this Hun inside her beloved city walls.

The eyes, she had closed from the moment she has accepted that her husband (husband…he was not; he would never be) was rutting (how degrading…), opened again looking straight into his eyes. He was above her, looking at her while something unseen but hard (?) was rubbing against her thighs. She was going to give him a piece of her mind. She was going to tell him off for once and for good!

\- Go away, Attila. Barbarian, priest murderer, killer of good men. I order you; go off me, Swine, beast…

The large hand hit hard her cheek. This was enough; the bear was not doing to be frustrated any longer from his prey. He was to take her now. The next thing which happened surprised her; he had got her to turn on her stomach her to face the mattress, nose inside the pillows. Her dress was again pushed up, the strange hard thing started again its rubbing but this time it felt that before it had been weirdly gentle and this was no more a game.

The hand touched things which had never been touched but by her, something went… Her eyes went open; closed, open… The thing went pressing against… more pressing. It became frightfully painful; not really painful but really unpleasant and she felt sick. It was inside her, it was grunting, moaning. Repeatedly pushing…; no, it was ramming. Like the attack on the bridge; but she was defenceless. Her walls had fallen, the bridge attacked had been ransacked and now she was left with being dragged outside of her Paris by a monster that had killed good bishop Gozlin. The thing was a dagger against her neck and he would enslave her and … and it was over. The weight on her shoulders went limp, the thing went out. The beast had rolled on his side of the bed, panting yet silent. What was his next plan for her humiliation; her abject defeat?

Sick, he was sick. How could he… Gods, how could he…. This time, there was no mushroom, no beer to blame. No cheating wife. Just him who left at his own device had done this thing. It was like he was living again a moment in a previous life. Like when frustrated by Lagertha's rejection (again and again), he had used and abused of Floki's slave. After, he had cursed himself and offered a thankful sacrifice to Freyr that the woman had not become pregnant. Today… tonight, it was his wedding night. And he had just raped the woman he loved above all things.

If the Gods had wanted to shame him, they had succeeded far beyond their wildest dreams…. Pulling back quickly his breeches, he turned to his poor love.

Like him, she had turned on her back; the similarity stopped here. Body shaking incoherently, she was staring at the ceiling, yet not seeing it. Eyes full of tears. Breathing hard. There was no vixen, just a young doe which has just been ravaged by an angry wolf. And this beast was none but him. If he could have, he would have howled at the desolation of this situation. A gentle, sweet ewe which should have been protected by the shepherd's faithful hound…

Without noticing what he was doing, his arm curled around her, bringing Gisla in. There inside the cradle of his arms, he started whispering soothing words. This was useless yet he had to try and make amends. It was bad enough he had, he had… he had! Never in his life, had he felt so sick. And he was wrong and he was a beast… A nasty wolf, a brutish bear. A criminal… an unforgivable crime committed by a chastised husband who was trying to push away into the realms of nightmares this act of evil. And of all these words, she could not make sense of a single one. She would never know how sorry he was.

Shaking. She could not stop shaking. This was it. This was sex. Well, if this was sex; she was surprised at the fortitude of her suffering sisters in matrimony. Sex was disgusting, sick. Humiliating. Men were animals; females should never be left alone near them. No wonder so many women ran to nunneries preferring the retired solitude to the company of males. Girls should be warned of the atrocity. If humanity died in consequence of the absence of a new generation: so much the better.

… How often did husbands subject their wives to the sinister ritual? Were the soothing noises he was making a way to express his … enjoyment? Did he want… more? She did not want more. She did not want any form of sex; no male companionship. What she wanted was to remain chaste until her last day. Her breathing went calmer; it was over. Ordeal done, he seemed satisfied though for some reason, he was looking … sad? Did he really expect her to enjoy the process? Tomorrow, the stained sheet would be examined by matrons, nuns. Any child born later would be deemed a true son of Rollo. Only a virgin could give this ring of legitimacy just like pure snow can only show but the steps of who walks on it.

Why should she like the… when the realization of the why struck her. A contended wife was more fertile. The matron had said it. The duty of a good wife was to make her husband satisfied and to provide him with hale heirs! Pregnant, she could be pregnant. Now! From this man!

How did she it, she would never know. She jerked from his embrace, putting a hand to cover her mouth. If she had to vomit, she would do it in the small recess by her bed room. Pregnant, she could be pregnant! She had to do something now. She had to clean herself, remove from her whatever fluid he had left in her. This was getting from bad to worse. To the dark infernos ruled by Beelzebub. She could not allow this seed to be firmly planted in her womb.

All he could know what that, once again and this time so well deserved, his wife had run out from him, from his arms. Run to the recess where ablutions were performed discreetly far from eyes.

Run away. Deserved. He should be put down like a rabid dog. He deserved it. To be killed… killed! … No! Stupid girl, do not go kill your-self. Gods, please; please Gods. Please, do spear me. Do spear us. Do not kill… do not die?

Rollo ran to the little room, but a few steps behind Gisla.


	3. Chapter 3

As she persisted in doing her best to drown about the entire little table on which the basin was resting, he starts wondering how often his wife was used to do menial tasks herself. At this rate, the water bucket which was standing on the floor by the table would be empty soon..

Let me do it.

Naturally she did not understand; obviously she would not understand; a decision was soon made even if it was a terrified woman who had the ewer pulled out of her trembling hand.

Let me do it.

This time, the basin was filled without problem allowing her need to proceed to nightly ablutions. A hand snatched a few towels albeit her following action made no sense. True, she was dipping the cloth into the water, but instead of washing herself, she was rubbing her dress.

Of the elegant night dress with its wide sleeves, it was best to say it had suffered badly. Some part had been ripped off, it was certainly wrinkled and ungainly stains including blood were now decorating it. Sinric would probably admonish his pupil that the word was inappropriate in this setting.

The dress is spoiled… I do not mean you are … Why … why can't you speak Norse? One would have thought. A princess… you would have a retinue of tutors to teach you Norse among other the foreign languages princesses and queens are supposed to master to welcome envoys from other realms…

Like her, he was trying to scrub the stains away; she did not seem to mind the help. She did not seem to acknowledge him at all too much occupied as she was to try and give back to her virginal dress its pristine status. As if a spotless dress would somehow restore her innocence from the knowledge about the physical aspect of Love-making. The repulsive aspect of it…

This dress is gone. 'Tis a pity; it was good silk you know. In Hedeby, we could sell it for a little fortune: easily three farms or a few cows… yes, a few cows including a bull… not sure about the bull. How much did your …

The man her misbegotten father had imposed on her, the man-beast who had terrorized her people was speaking in his incomprehensible language. She did not understand, did not want to understand and was in no mood to pretend. Yet for all his sins, he was helpful trying to help her remove the traces of this animalistic mating. At least, he knew he was a vile creature; his behaviour showed he was ashamed of it. Maybe men were monstrous creatures against their will; maybe it was a curse for Satan. A curse they were aware of yet unable to lift.

He was keeping on the slightly guttural muttering shaking his head at her damaged shift.

You better remove it. A seamstress will be able to repair it after a good soak … or maybe a dye and we can sell… you can… maybe you don't… You probably don't. I cannot imagine your father on a market place.

He smiled. He did not see Charles as able to collar customers like after a successful raid, the long ships crews were offering their wares to prospective buyers eager to be the one who sells the most and at the best price what they had just stolen but a few weeks earlier. What a limp wrist! How did it come this pitiful shadow of what a man should be. Had managed to father this unique shield maid? This king who had fainted when he should have fought with Ragnar; this father who should have raised his sword when the Norse king had pulled ahead of him, blade against her throat his only child as a hostage. Charles had fainted; Gisla had not begged for her life. Mute and resolute; her eyes like daggers daring Ragnar to kill her to free her soldiers from his threat and get them to kill this Viking beast. I Were Franks mad to choose as king such coward?

Charlemagne's grandson did not impress him much. Kingship by birth right was wrong. Was king who deserved to be king. Who has the strength, the leadership to be king. Who was worth it; was unworthy he who happened only to be born to the right consort from the right sire! Charles the unworthy… like Erlendur. The same viciousness as his father but not the same charisma, not the same courage.

Why did the beast frown? She looked at him, shuddering even more than but a few instants ago.

You better remove it. Let me help you. You are not yourself. I know I do not look like it but I am quite …

He stopped speaking feeling his cheeks turn crimson.

He was frowning but an instant ago. Now he was blushing while trying to pull her dress out. She was fighting him, trying to keep the fabric on her, to keep her modesty. She knew what he wanted: after defiling her, he would sell her … like a slave. But he was not going to find it easy…

… Ehhh… good thing you do not speak Norse. You need a dress; that's what you need. Where do your maids store them? Your many, many dresses. I hope you realize I am not an emperor! I do not know how much wealth this dukedom of yours will bring me…us. But I know I cannot afford all these rolls of silk! Ah, stop fighting woman! I am not going to rape you. You cannot show yourself with this … Dress! Dress! Arhh …Sin… No, not Sinric! Dress?

She was looking at him like he was a mad man. And a mad man he was. Showing her a square towel and holding it over her shoulders, her breasts, Her legs, repeating frantically the same thing with an air of panic. Why was he not leaving her alone; leaving her to change her soiled night gown to something cleaner? Why was he not leaving the room; did he expect her to undress in front… A dress; he was looking for a dress!

Robe!

Robe?

Now it was her turn to take a cloth and try and put it on his shoulders, arms …

Robe. Dress!

Dress… Robe?

She acknowledged the word. Waved her fingers in the unspoken code of womanhood when they want their male companion to leave the room but he was having none of it.

You need a dress but you need to clean, to wipe more… that is if you want to avoid staining it.

To her horror, he was pulling the crumpled dress up showing her specks on blood on her inner thighs. Sick, she was feeling sick at looking at it. Her hand was shaking at the idea of touching her skin soiled by the traces of the bestial coupling.

Let me help. .. Vous….je … Je … Vous … help?

He dipped the towel in the faintly pink water, proceeding to rub her thighs. Her skin was soft, and her body smelled of perfumes her had heard about like one hears of legends. Sweet, flowery fragrances from a South, from the fabled East Athelstan was described to Ragnar.

There is this very large sea with no tides which bathes the coasts of Italy. Rome with all its martyrs is not far from it. Further East, you find Greece where the old Gods live on Mount Olympus then you meet the new Rome: Constantinople … but this is nothing.

Nothing at all… Then you reach Judea and Jerusalem where Our Lord died and resurrected… but again this is nothing. This is not the end. Ah Ragnar, the world, our Midgard is so immense. Odin, Christ has given us such an amazing gift. So many realms, so many… Ah, and there is the Caliph of Baghdad who sent envoys to Emperor Charlemagne and further East, always East, further away you have more lands. Lands which trade intoxicating perfumes which the women of Paris use shamelessly!

He monk had winked at Ragnar and everybody had laughed. Intoxicating, indeed? Did the women of Frankia bath in mead? Now, he could perceive the faint yet lingering soft smell of mysterious flowers of far off realms. Intoxicating had said Athelstan. Drunk, Rollo was thinking. Drunk with lust and love… and loving it.

In Northumbria, he had mocked Odin along the Gods of the North. Odin was angry with him, wishing him a life a misery but Aelle's God was approving of this new recruit.

The Christian magic could not work on him., he had said. Fool that he was. He was swallowing hook, bait, oars and ship proffered by this new God. So long Odin, he was too busy to feel the ache of leaving his people's faith. Too drunk as he was of the need of a shield maid born in a land which certainly did not approve of maidens with shields.

The cloth was pulled again from his hand, not very gently. If she had to touch it, she and she only would remove the sure signs of Sin.

Shoo!.. Go away. I do not need you here… Leave me alone.

She turned her back, confident he would not stay. Leaving, he certainly was though not this way since his sincere efforts were met with thanklessness… or not. He averted the eyes, watching simply the shadow of her naked body dancing on the walls by the candles light. Only after, did he leave.

Wait, he would. She would not stay much longer in the cubicle and … and she would soon have to call him, call for his help. Because she would need a dress. A dress he would offer leaving her no choice but to thank him. To acknowledge him.

There was no dress in sight; all the candles were ablaze shining on a room devoid of clothes aside his own cloak, shirts and boots. Was there another door, leading to another room he may have missed? Unless… unless the dresses were nicely folded like in Kattegat in huge chests. Chests which must be here in said bedroom. So many chests. Which one was it? Would he suffer the shame to ask her?

No, I do not need your help, I shall find it myself! I do… (Why am I talking like that?)

The man from Kattegat, the sullen, silent man; the husband with a nasty tongue scourging Siggy giving as good as he was taking; Ragnar's brother who could only ask questions and had to listen in humble silence to his sibling's words of wisdom could not stop chattering like a magpie. Was it because she did not understand what he wanted her to know, was it because at long last he felt he had found the one person who would deem interesting to know where his thoughts were taking him? He was like a broken dam. He had to speak, he had to share his thoughts. … And he had to find a dress.

A chest full of dresses… dresses fit for a princess… a pretty chest, a richly decorated chest. A large oak chest with carvings of winged creatures met his eyes. The naked winged children were playing along these birds of the amazing multi-coloured tail while keeping company to a man which he took as her God surrounded by less known deities. Lifting the very heavy lid (way too heavy for one woman to lift? How many servants? Two, three? Did Gisla ever bother to actually look inside her own belongings?), his investigation met with success. Dresses a galore… Rummaging quickly, he took a rather diaphanous sheath of pink and green stripes leaving one arm free.

In Kattegat, women would kill for this. Siggy…. An old friend of mine… she…she died before we went rai…we sailed to Frankia… Siggy would have loved it.

Rollo, you are an idiot. Discuss your late wife with your new wife! Why not tell her you had also a crush on Lagertha or made a pass at Cwenthryth while you are at it…


	4. Chapter 4 and epilogue

If she wondered why he sighed so heavily, the princess made no sign of it. Gone were the suspicious stains, she was clean. Clean, CLEAN! But the dress … the night dress was soiled beyond salvation. She had gasped when she had seen her husband coming back, with the sly smile… of an over-excited puppy? What had he done? What did he find to put his thick hands on and break? Trying with more or less success to cover up her naked body, she was readying for another confrontation when he pulled from behind his back, an over sheath ….

The type of dress one put over one's court dress. Not an underdress; not a night dress. The brute had taken… had chosen…. The dancing sheath she had worn for her first dance at her father's court!

Please, do not imagine anything risqué: princesses of the empire did not dance with men. They moved gracefully in even measured steps with other women of a same delicately nurtured background to the delight of the male part of the Aula Regia. Her first dance; her coming of age dance. Count Odo had stared at her like … like a man she could not bring herself to consider as a friend, much less as a lover. She had felt weighted, detailed like a slab of meat in the hands of a butcher. From then on, she had avoided the older man. He was … tainted. An old, tainted man… For the first time, she wondered how old this new husband of hers was. He looked old enough. But his hands were younger than the Count. With his bushy beard, he could be anything between his mid-thirties to the wrong side of forty!

Lost in reminiscing the happy days, she missed her husband looking at her like a wolf , getting nearer to his prey, hiding under the wind. Wondering what was making her get so deeply immersed in her thoughts; she could only caress the fabric…

Later, much later, she would have been properly wooed by a prince… A prince naturally vetted by Father and reluctantly approved of by her uncles. He would have been dashing, noble, handsome. Naturally, it would have been love at first sight and he would have served the empire like a loyal subject. Subject? No, he would have been the younger son of a far off kingdom. Maybe exiled from his native land by a cruel usurper and having to fight his way in this foreign and of Frankia. Importantly, he would never take her away from her beloved Paris. Her father he would serve with as much valour and courage as the noble Roland, paladin of Charlemagne. His word he would always keep and they would marry … and … and, and the prince would morph into a beast just like her real husband.

But she would forgive him because she would love him. Kisses given by a passionate husband could be nice. Except naturally when said husband was a North man. In her fantasy world, her husband would be... could be a lot of things but a Viking certainly not! And they would dance! Together! No more dance for maidens. The real thing. Papa would frown probably, raising his eyes up to the ceiling as if she would pay attention. Her husband would allow her to stand by his side. A man who would look at her, making her feel alive and… and it would never be…. In theory, it could be… she would be allowed to dance Caroles and whatnots. Dance face to face with a man; the two of them alone. Sharing together the pleasure to set tongues wagging. She stifled the smile dancing on her lips; dance now she could but it would be … with this… this bear!

Life was unfair. She could now dance but chained to this mockery of a man.

Grasping the silky sheath, she turned her back knowing… knowing he was watching. (Look at my back. This is all you will see, warm meat.)

If it was taking her longer than it should be to get the dress over her head to slide around her body, Rollo did not mind. He had had always a roving eye for pretty girls. He loved women, strong, bold, feisty women. And he loved this particular woman.

The colours suited her; he had to tell her. Somehow… somewhat, he had to tell her…

You… you… j...je…jolie!

The pretty girl did her best impression of a snarling she-wolf as she walked in front of him in a half dress, head up high, looking straight ahead like her bedroom was her father's hall full of courtiers. Imperial… a goddess among mortals.

The goddess shrieked at the view of the chest, lid open, and clothes thrown carelessly on the floor.

You… you… Is there anything which is able to withstand your desire to destroy? How am I going to fold them again properly? Do you know, not that you care what hard work it is to clean this not to mention iron it? We need to call my maids… you are just as destructive with clothes as you are with people! Spoiling, desecrating, ruining… your people are just violent barbarians without one hint of respect for beauty and culture…

She would have carried on but her husband was probably tired wanting to go back to bed as he unceremoniously took her in his arms unimpressed by the fight she was putting on. Arms and legs flayed in every direction until, he sat her on the edge of the nuptial bed. Near him; very much near him. A knot in the stomach started to paralyze her.

I have decided about us. About …je, vous … tu?.. tu, elle, ne…nous! About nous!

The man-beast was counting on his fingers like he was trying to remember without any joke how to call them, her and him. Us, nous. There was no mockery, no lewd innuendo. Just a man trying to speak the foreign language of his wife. Full of sincere endeavour; no hidden plan. Just a man doing his best to get his message through.

It slowly, slowly dawned on Gisla that aside the disastrous mating, he had been kind to her. Kind or at least not cruel, not unpleasant. Rather in your face when he was taking for granted his marital rights; which was expected as both had solemnly promised to Christ he to protect their household, their family to be… and her to be a good wife, a diligent and obeying wife to her lord and master. But a good spouse; trying to help her wife manage her first marital ablutions. A kind man, trying to get her a night dress. A man with unsuspected gentleness…

We… nous… we are married. It is not going to be easy. For either of us; but we will make it. We shall be happy. You and me…. We can be happy. Just … just try. We can try, can't we?

Sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling the fresh air as the braziers standing in their room had died out, she felt ridiculously self-conscious near the vital animalism of her husband. Not that he was encroaching on her personal space, but he was too close, too physical. Too much alive and not enough dressed. She bent her head looking down, rigid, to the floor furs. Noticing he had nicely shaped feet. Feet for once not covered by this horrible blue ink. Why a good looking man should… a good-looking man… a man who has been granted by Christ Our Lord broad shoulders, hazel eyes, way too many inches and a winning grin should think he needs to draw barbaric designs on his body was beyond her comprehension. Placed at her left, he was emitting sounds which had no meaning though from his serious tone, they were significant. For him… for her...?

His hand took her left hand, rubbing lightly the gold signet symbol of her lifetime enslavement to the brute. Brushing it with an unbelievable consideration when she was thinking about it.

You and I belong to different worlds. You are a Christian and I worship… worshiped Odin. Eh… My people worship Odin, trust in the Gods and … and you don't. But it is not important: the Seer said it: the Gods are in our favour. So…

He took again her hand and this time putting it in its twin, covering it with his other hand. She was a prisoner!

SO…So…It does not matter whether you are from Paris and me from the North. The Gods have fated it and … and we shall be happy. Together!

What the brute was saying, once again was terra incognita for her though it was obvious it was something important he was rambling about while holding and caressing the imprisoned hand.

Know… how can I get it to you… know that I approve of the words your priest said during the ceremony in front of your… of our God. I am happy to find your people take marriage as seriously as my people do… I swear I shall be a good husband. A better husband than I have been in the past…

It was a good thing she did not understand; did not know, would never know about Siggy. The Lady of the North. A lady of the past, lost in the blue mist of a land where dwarves lived for real. A land of ice, snow, sharp rocks and fog. The very land he was abandoning for the sunny sky of a girl who would bring her God to smile benignly on him. On them two.

In Kattegat, it was considered normal that at one point in his life, a seasoned warrior would settle down. Would notice during a banquet a girl sitting on the bench reserved to maids. Later, he would come and discuss with her father the sordid details of dowry, morning gift. Comparing wealth between the future in-laws. A day would come when said older man would bring a treasure chest full of gold, silver and fineries. Her father would approve with a discreet nod and the warrior would hold her hand in front of the whole town. Aslaug would give her a flower headband smaller than the one worn at the wedding while the fiancé's shoulders would get many slaps of congratulations by each and every free man. Ragnar would comment it was about time this man got married…. Ragnar…

Well, Ragnar may disapprove of his bride but all in all, there was not much difference between the two lands. A seasoned warrior in his radiant summer had come under the notice of a rich father looking for a man to provide him with bouncy grandchildren. Preferably male. The girl had suited him and they were now married. The Gods had decided in their complicated wisdom that this girl would be a Frank. Floki would grumble that no sword had been exchanged, would oppose the fact nobody in his sane mind would kneel at a wedding… Ragnar, Floki, the way you chose to get married is your own choice. I make my bed as I choose it to be. In it, lays Gisla. She will be mine, I will be hers and the skalds will tell of our love to the generations to come.

Together, us, nous… nous.

The giant was looking exasperated, repeating what must be 'us'. Nous, except it was pronounced with a slight singing slant. Frowning, he was holding his hand, muttering something which sounded like … one … five… ten. One…

Nous… Nous, un…arrhh One…? … Te, te, te-aw, cat, cink

Deux! Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq.

Yes! That's right. Nous deux. Un … famille!

Une . Une famille. (A family. Was she actually discussing a family with the man who had morphed barely a few instants earlier into a beast like the biblical King Nebuchadnezzar?)

For once, for the first time, both were trying to understand each other, without fear. Without anger or suspicion. It was not trust; it was far from love; but it was something better than hate.

I am tired. It is late… We shall have this conversation tomorrow. (Tomorrow, I shall… I shall pray and pray until God gives me a sign. Frees me from you. And punishes Father for the great sorrow he has inflicted on me)

She nudged her head toward the great bed. He approved with his head. They both slipped their bodies under the bedcovers. At first, she felt fear when his huge arms took possession of her pushing her bosom against his bare chest, but it was her who fell asleep the first.

Rollo had not finished. She entered sleep as a child was cradled by his mother while singing a lullaby.

Un famille. A family. Our family. A son first. Not that I am set against a daughter. It is that an elder brother is better to protect his little sister than the other way around. Bjorn, my… our nephew was the eldest. Then there are Ubbe, Vitserk, Sigurd like his grandfather and the sickly child. Why my brother has had the cruelty to oblige this baby to live, Odin knows why! There was also Gydda… I loved her… I love her still. She would have been a great shield maiden. Like her mother. I have quite an extensive family… but no family of my own.

Until I met you. Now, yes. I have my family. And we shall have our own nursery…. Tomorrow, the palace matrons will check we have accomplished our duty to the crown. Everybody will be satisfied you were found a virgin and I was not impotent. Sleep well, my love… I have attended a wedding like ours many, many years ago. Earl Haraldson was marrying… marrying… Thyri. That's her name. Siggy killed him. I mean her son-in-law.

I doubt your father would have the courage to hold a knife; much less try and use it against me. I am sure it would give something to talk about to the gossips. Our wedding has been pretty formal; no scandal. My berserkers are barely drunk! A very formal, traditional wedding, come to think of it. Just like in Kattegat… Ouch?

What is this? Your knife! I shall keep it. Why would a delicate lady like you have need of a hunting dagger to cut the neck of a stag? What is this man thinking? Another mystery of your Southern people, I say.

There were so many things Gisla had to know… So many things of his past he had to put in order, trimming some details, cutting her, adding there… She was now fully asleep. He allowed himself a satisfied smile, waiting till dawn to give in to sleep enjoying her soft breath against his arm.

Yesterday had been a tiring day, but now, as slowly through the window overlooking to the Seine, tomorrow dawn was rising alighted by a sun which was going to shine for him. As for this first night, he did not care about it; there would be more nights, many more to come and hopefully this time worth remembering. They would come, all he had to do was to be patient and he was a very patient man.


End file.
